Let Vindice Be Aided by Me
Commentary by Joan Hough
This series of verse is dedicated to the men most responsible for giving me the opportunity to learn the truth about my South.
My grateful thanks go to the writers associated with the Georgia Heritage Council: Steve Scroggins, researcher and writer, extraordinaire; Frank Conner, amazing researcher and author whose book serves as my Confederate-American Encyclopedia; Bill Vallante, super myth buster and dedicated truth seeker; and to Al Benson and Walter D. Kennedy whose wonderful book put many pieces of the big puzzle together for me, while making my hair stand on end.
I dedicate this series, most especially, to J.A. Davis, the brilliant leader of the Georgia Heritage Council gang, a gifted author, whose recent work entitled "The Pendulum Swings, Deo Vindice" was the inspiration for all that follows here.
Let Vindice Be Aided by Me
By Joan Hough
Heavy, heavy is my heart,
Tears course down,
down this Southern face,
Yes, I weep because I know.
Oh, God, do I know!
Oh anguish! I know the truth,
It strikes me with its too sharp point,
Strikes deep in the heart of me.
It tears my soul, it clouds my reason,
Lying enemies accused my kin of treason.
That enemy of my kin is mine
Always and forever—
As the cross is my sign.
How long must what was remain an is?
How can what was and still is hurt so much?
I hear a long dead whisper,
Feel a long dead touch—
Hear a long dead plea,
Is this too much?
Seek vengeance, seek it for me.
At least, make liars forsake the lie
And with truth, testify.
But how can I obtain what truth needs
when none with U. S. power heeds?
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,
Deo Vindice, Deo Vindice
But I must add,
Let Vindice be aided by me.
Let now be the Confederate hour,
Let now be ours the power,
Let us force truth from mouths of government liars,
Let’s light their conscience with heaven’s own fires,
Let us make the people of the world aware,
that Confederates’ truths fill the air.
No matter their races or high places,
let national party controllers
and financial high rollers
fall flat on their Socialist faces,
And remain where they should and they will
“till truth their mouths and their pens do fill.
Let Saint Lincoln revealed be as one forsworn,
A dark angel again reborn,
Guilty of perjury was he, with lips smiling with glee
and tongue dripping lie after lie,
when he and his Marxist-Radical Republicans
made a Republic roll over and die.
Let honesty be a “born again” storm,
in the land, where slave trade was American born,
‘twas born under the stars and under the stripes,
Not under the stars and the cross,
It began in the land where the Yankee was boss.
Now let truth be reborn in
Lincoln’s Republican land
where under white sails on big clipper ships,
Yankees set forth
To bring home to joyful New Englanders
and their kin, the black gold of human skin.
Think this not true?
Then pray seek honest history,
Please do. Learn the truth.
Learn that Yankees took those slaves
And placed them, some as servants in homes of Yankee “Lords,”
But most in cold, dark, dreary factories and even colder graves.
Learn that in the 20th century
Slaves’ graves were found buried on a Yankee Plantation site
hidden in the center of New York City, New York.
All should learn that in the cold of the North, the children of the Sun
sickened, moaned, groaned and died too frequently,
Were saved only when their care
became burdensome—too expensive
for their Northern Lords.
Then in came the whites—the Irish,
Enticed here by the Northern lords
they worked for mere pennies—penny, slave labor,
They paid for their food,
paid for their clothes, paid for the roof o’er their heads,
paid for the medicine they barely managed to get when sick in their beds.
Black gold, in the eyes of the Lords,
No longer needed, changed and became black dirt,
So, delightedly, the Lords dumped it all in the South.
By selling it, they dumped it—
When they could’ve let their black gold go.
They could‘ve set those black people free.
Instead, they convinced Southerners to buy that black gold.
So cotton could be harvested
And sent back up North to those same mighty Northern Lords,
Sent to be used in their factories
to make all that cloth to sew and to sell
and to pave the way of the fine Yankee Lords
away from Heaven, straight to hell.
Thanks to Eli Whitney, and slave ships of old,
Cotton, the South’s white gold,
Was harvested by the North’s black gold,
And sanctimonious Northerners
Quickly managed to forget their former role,
How they had dirtied their hearts and dirtied their hands
By stealing black people in far away lands.
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